Crossover
by Sheo Darren
Summary: OCcentric tribute fic. One Rolito Miranda really owns one restaurant called Rolito's Pasta. And happened to drop by the place the morning after one Marc takes one Triela out to one motel. Final Chapter. Life goes on. The end. R&R!
1. Showdown X No Show

The first gunshot startles me out of my pleasant reverie. A flurry of others follow.

Small caliber semiautomatics, by the sound of them. Pistols, then, and none bigger than 10mm. Maybe a submachine gun, too.

Wait. That last burst was an assault rifle. Woah. Someone decided to break out the big guns early.

No movie SFX. Those are the real things. My experience never proved wrong. After all, I'm still alive and mostly whole.

A war is raging right over my head.

I turn on the TV. Briefly surf channels. _The Daily Show With John Stewart_ is on. Excellent. Maybe the refrigerator has some nice complementary drinks, too.

It does. I pop one promising-looking bottle.

Bang, goes a gun upstairs. I tip the open bottle to the ceiling and salute myself.

"Cheers, Rolito."

* * *

**Gunslinger Girl**

**Crossover

* * *

**

Inspired by The Oddity's fan fiction "Showdown". Happens at around the same time.

Not linked to my usual GSG fanon.

**  
**To: **The Oddity**. Here's the "sequel" I promised. Enjoy.

* * *

**One  
Showdown/No Show

* * *

**

Here I am, sipping good booze and laughing at the Americans' latest political folly on cable TV in a comfy apartment while mortal combat rages right above my head.

Life is pretty good, ne?

Full automatic overhead. Rock and roll. Fourth of July or New Year. Someone has a lot of money to burn. Same here, save I was looking for a different, temporary kind of peace.

Taking care of a pair of cyborgs for two years running has burned me out some. With Giuseppe currently training as an AS pilot in Helmajistan and Elena undergoing an intensive checkup, I saw my chance and asked for three days worth of vacation. I received five. Mr. Silver, you have my gratitude and eternal loyalty.

I camped at an expensive apartment in one of the classier districts of Rome. I slept late, woke up even later, ate lots of rich Italian food and basically lazed about for two days. I feel glorious.

The next barrage of shots brings me back to Earth in a jiffy.

They sound like they're having a war up there. If I wanted a war, I would have accompanied Giuseppe to Helmajistan. Or picked a fight with Section Two. Or dropped by the local CRG recruiting center.

But no. The mountain wouldn't come to Muhammad. So Muhammad came to the mountain.

I'm Roman Catholic. Lukewarm, but still Catholic. Dust to dust, Amen.

I'm also no stranger to guns. I was born in the Philippines, a country corrupted by the gun-loving Americans. My father and paternal uncles carry guns. A maternal uncle fights as a machine gunner for the local Maoist rebels. I myself liked to play with toy guns when I was little. Rambo, Terminator, Robocop and G.I. Joe were viewing and toy staples. I wanted to be a gunslinger when I grew up.

Then Japan and swordsmanship lessons under Takane-sensei happened on me.

How the mighty have fallen.

**  
**The gunfire has become sporadic, like a stuttering cough that can't quite decided if it's going away or gathering strength.

Apparently, no one has died yet. Or gotten hit, considering absence of yelps and screams.

Great.

"If you can't do it in one shot," Valentin Vegamora, my Uncle, lectured while showing an eight-year-old me and his daughter Vien how to hold a pistol, "By all means do it with two or three, as many as needed. Just make sure you hit."

Emphasis on that last line. Heavy emphasis.

My Uncle Val is a crack shot. With a revolver. An antique Colt .38 long-barrel. So much that he can stare down about anyone without needing to touch the butt of his gun. Form Zero.

My cousin Vien is about the same age as I am. She's also a crack shot. Almost as good as her Papa. Unlike Uncle Val, Vien picked a relatively modern gun. A Taurus Raging Bull. Forty-five. Bigger bullets. Better range. Same philosophy. Same accuracy. Very deadly.

Compared to them, the guys upstairs are amateurs. If it weren't for gravity, their bullets wouldn't even hit the ground.

Here I am, a swordsman, deconstructing tactics in a gun battle. Ironies abound in life.

The parties upstairs continue shooting at each other.

I sigh.

Hasn't anyone called the cops yet? By the way, don't expect me to place the call. I'm an illegal unregistered alien affiliated with a shadowy organization that brokers arms with rogue nation-states and terrorist organizations all across the world. That and I don't pay taxes. Not exactly your model citizen.

Still. A war has begun next door. Why hasn't anyone hit the panic button yet? Dial the local 911. Get some pros here ASAP. Security guards, the Carabinieri, the Army, NATO, contacts with The Family, anyone who could shoot back for a frightened little old lady.

This isn't the Bronx or Mogadishu or Baghdad. This is Rome, Italy. A cultured place populated by civilized people. Or am I wrong? Have I gotten lost or transported to another world.

Or maybe I'm the only person in this apartment awake, alive, sane or all of the above.

Sorry. No plan to be a solicitous hero. I'm staying right here in my room.

The latest thud is the loudest yet. Maybe someone got shot at last. Finally.

More gunshots of differing caliber follow.

Nope. Still alive. Probably slipped on a slick spot or knocked down some big piece of furniture. Not enough to slow them down.

Or maybe they're really good. Matrix Dodge a la Neo.

Who would be good enough to last this long?

Noir. Crazy Horse. Some of those Mithril bastards. Like that Sagara kid. Pinocchio from Padania, save he's been dead for a while. Killed by cyborgs, I hear.

Cyborgs.

I sit up. There's a thought. A very bad thought.

The only groups with cyborgs in this country are Section Two and Amalgam, my organization. We (meaning Amalgam) have two units. Zero units are with me right now.

Gunshot.

A **cyborg** is shooting at something right above my head.

Gunshot**s**.

Correction. Cyborg**s** are shooting at something right above my head.

Exhange of gunshots.

Not quite. Almost there. Just a little more.

Cyborgs are shooting **at each other **right above my head.

You forgot the question mark. Your hunch isn't confirmed yet.

Cyborgs are shooting at each other right above my head

There. Grammar and punctuation are important.

Now: oh, shit.

This is the Mirasol all over again. Only I don't have even a single cyborg on my side. Giuseppe's kicking ass in Helmajistan. Elena is having a check up with Ami. My Venom is under repair.

It's just me and my sword against cyborgs and their guns.

I detect a Battle of Little Big Horn in the making. Guess who stars as General Custer?

But since they're not shooting at me…

Live and let live. I switch to HBO, kick back, relax and try to enjoy myself.

Ooh! A movie by Bruckenheimer and Bay! With Johnny Depp, too! Excellent! Let's see the people upstairs drown this one out.

**  
**The sound of a bottle crisply breaking on the drunken Johnny Depp's noggin makes me wince. Wow. Surround sound is really awesome.

No. Wait. That sounded too real.

The people upstairs are pretty quiet now.

Oi. Someone just went out the window.

Moron. Only amateurs jump out of windows.

Tell that to the psycho redhead loli with horns and invisible killer hands that you ran across one dark night in Kamakura Prefecture, Tokyo, Japan.

That girl had said invisible killer hands to cushion her fall. What do **you** have?

High Dexterity combined with Luck and Break Fall skills.

Ha. Ha. Ha. Funny.

You're a terrible Tsukkomi.

You're a worse Bokke.

I could have imagined grumbling drifting down to my window.

Your mark got away, huh? Had that happen to me once. Her name was Jessica. It was intentional. She made a great little sister.

Ah, Jess, I miss you so much…

Silent peace descends upon the hotel. Great. I can sleep now.

I think I'm going to go visit my restaurant tomorrow…

* * *

**  
_To Be Continued/Tsuzuku/Itutuloy

* * *

_**

**  
Author Notes:** This is the first installment of a medium-length series featuring the POV of my GSG original character Rolito Miranda. The premise is that Rolito is present within certain fan fiction of my fellow GSG Authors. Hence my title of Crossover.

I've done this with permission of the Authors whose works inspired me. I'm not claiming to own any of their work, advertising for myself or denigrating anyone. Indeed, I am very grateful to all the Authors involved for approving this pet project of mine.

For this chapter, I've featured Showdown by The Oddity, where Liesel has a firefight with Clarice and Alessa in her apartment. My premise? Rolito was renting the apartment room right below them. And gets rather grumpy.

Next chapter will feature the infamous Colonel Marksman (or G.D. Wallez, however which way he wants to be referred to) and his equally "heinous" story Innocence

I hope that the readers of the fan fiction I've mentioned will like Crossover. For those who read this yarn first, I humbly press that you read the stories that supplied me the material to work with. The Authors who supplied me with their interesting and inspiring stories deserve at least that much.

Thank you.


	2. Innocence X Ignorance

The cops are late. They don't bother to interview me since I was one floor down and therefore supposedly inconsequential as a witness. Then again, I didn't to hang around long enough to volunteer myself.

I packed relatively light, two medium-sized duffel bags worth of gear. Spare clothes for a week. Toiletries. Cash in both dollars and euros. Fake ID documents. Four cellular phones, three being brand new, unused and therefore expendable in emergencies; the fourth is my personal unit. My high-end Palmtop, a compromise for leaving my laptop at the base.

My katana, throwing knives, ski mask and gloves– just in case someone needs to die while I'm on vacation. Anyone who requires such action on my part will suffer a slow and painful death.

On with the tour?

* * *

**  
Gunslinger Girl**

**Crossover**

**  
**Inspired by The Oddity's fan fiction "Showdown" and Colonel Marksman/G.D. Wallez's fan fiction "Innocence". Happens at around the same time.

Not linked to my usual GSG fanon.

**  
**To: Colonel Marksman (or G.D. Wallez, however you're known as right now). Rolito likes peaceful vacations. But peaceful vacations somehow flee him for some reason.

**

* * *

**

Chapter 2

Innocence/Ignorance

* * *

**  
**"Hey, Hobbes."

"Sir Darren! Welcome back!"

Sheo Darren, traveling (and struggling) novelist. A name and identity as fake as Colonel Dao-ren (Romanized as Daren, a name the CRG has learned to hate), Remue Dadaam Herumet or Rolito Miranda. One of the best defenses is nonexistence. You can't kill someone who does not exist.I sort of own a restaurant called "Rolito's Pasta". It's a family-run business in the cosmopolitan part of Rome. I stumbled across the place by accident back when I was new in Amalgam. The name instantly caught my attention. Not everyday you find a place that shares your alias.

Though expensive, Rolito's was well worth the money. It's especially popular with dating couples. (Note to self: Bring Ami here one of these days.) I loved the carbonara, the wine and the ambience. I hated the idea that it was being foreclosed due some badly-advised deals by the old couple who own the place. In one of my brief spurts of naïve generosity, I paid their debts and got them a better financial manager. The owners adopted me. Business boomed afterwards.

What else can I say? I'm good luck to a select few.

Hobbes is an Englishman and a senior waiter. I poached him off a three-star hotel to train the new waiters. He thrived in Rolito's soon as he set foot in it. He's bubbly as a girl and completely unflappable. I can spectacularly lose my temper at the slightest thing, but a nuclear bomb wouldn't even stir a single strand of hair on Hobbes' blessed head.

"What brings you here, Sir Darren?" Hobbes cheerfully asks me.

"I was around for the moment, so I decided to drop by."

We chat in English. Italian is a great language, classy and historical, but I grew up with English. I taught Giuseppe and Elena the language. It pays to be multilingual. I mastered English, Tagalog and Japanese. I also know some French, German and Russian, though my command of these is more or less limited to road signs, food and curse words.

Like any good proprietor, I look around. Rolito's is two-thirds full and shows no sign of emptying soon. "Business looks good," I note with pleasure.

"Excellent, Sir Darren, if I may say so myself."

"Great to hear that, buddy. Are Auntie Carla and Uncle Francisco here?"

Auntie Carla and Uncle Francisco are the original owners of Rolito's. They're a very old-fashioned Italian couple. They happily adopted me. All their kids are grown up and far away, so they always fuss over me whenever I drop by.

"Ah, they are probably home." Hobbes shook his head. "Missus Carla was not feeling good yesterday, so Master Francisco took her home. They called me this morning and bade me take charge."

"Wise decision," I agree. "I'll drop by their place and say hi."

"That is most kind of you, Sir Darren."

Among the customers was a bunch of teenagers enjoying beers. Drinking already? It isn't even noon. I know Italian law is hazy on age limits with booze, but isn't it bad to start the day with beer?

Well, at least this bunch is quite well-behaved. Good. I was at hand during the last time unpleasantness happened a year ago. It was a good warm-up. All the punk kids ended up at the hospital. They studiously avoided Rolito's since then.

"Do you remember that girl Marc took home last night?" one of the kids asked over his beer.

"Yeah."

"She was **hot**."

"Blonde and dark-skinned…"

"Sexy…"

"Lucky bastard…"

Marc? I seem to remember the name. Let me see.

Oh. Him. That French kid with the smooth moves.

Ah, the joys of being young and single. Though I disapprove of premarital sex. Sex is something special you save for your wedding night with your wife.

Then again, considering I made love to my sensei when I was just a year short of legal age…

Boys will be boys, I guess.

"What was the girl's name again?" one of the kids asked.

"Sounded like an English name."

"But she kind of struck me as Dutch…"

"Triela! That was her name!"

They grin at each other.

Nearby, I freeze.

I think my heart has just skipped a beat or three. And for all the wrong reasons.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

FUCK!

Heart's beating again. Move. Move!

"Where?"

They stare at me. I stare back. "Would any of you know," I softly ask, "Where he took her?"

The kids exchanged guilty glances with each other. Friends of Marc, eh? Good friends, too.

I don't have time to interrogate them. That means I'll have to use a more painfully expensive method.

"Hobbes?"

"Yes, Sir Darren?"

"These young gentlemen's bill? It's on me."

"Yes, Sir Darren."

Returning to the youngsters, I put my friendliest smile to work. "Now, my young friends, since we're all pretty much acquainted, can any of you tell me where Marc took this Triela girl?"

They still hesitate. Very good friends. I have precious few of those. Marc, you may be a bastard, but you've got some good people watching your back.

"It's very important that I find him as soon as possible," I explain in my calmest tone, suppressing the hasty internal anger yanking at the reins of my self-control. "I happen to know something of Triela. Her caretaker is a very scary sort. Marc might get in serious trouble with him."

I'm not lying. I can even claim I'm presenting the barebones of the truth.

"Well," one of them began, "There's this hotel he likes to bring his girls to…"

Bingo.

**  
**"Hold the fort for me, will you, Hobbes?"

"Of course, Sir Darren." He paused upon noticing the grim look on my face. "Is there anything wrong?"

"Lives are on the line, Hobbes. See ya."

I run.

Triela is the name of a cyborg from Section Two.

So much for my relaxing vacation…

Putang-ina! Marc! You'd better be alive when I get to you!

* * *

**  
_To Be Continued/Tsuzuku/Itutuloy_**


	3. Mystery X Discovery

_Putang-ina! Marc! You'd better be alive when I get to you!_

**  
**Sadly, Marc is bad at keeping promises.

His lifeless, naked body sprawls undignified upon the bed. His head hangs at an ugly angle, unseeing eyes bulging from their sockets. Stuffed in his gaping mouth is a pillowcase soaked in dark blood.

Shit. I'm too late. Again.

**  
Gunslinger Girl**

**Crossover**

**  
**Inspired by The Oddity's fan fiction "Showdown" and Colonel Marksman/G.D. Wallez's fan fiction "Innocence". Happens at around the same time.

Not linked to my usual GSG fanon.

**  
Mystery/Discovery**

**  
**I survey the room. No bathroom door. Windows are big, closed and locked from inside. Big bed. Table. Chairs. Dresser. Clothes litter the floor. The boxers tell me they're Marc's.

No sign of Triela. Good. The last thing I want is her shotgun aimed at the back of my head.

The police aren't here yet. Figures. These motels are very solicitous of their customers' privacy. They probably only send their clean-up crew in when the couple returns the room keys to the concierge. I slipped in through the unguarded back door.

I know the drill. Mask on. Gloves on. (Never leave base without them, even when on vacation. Fingerprints are a no-no.) Thank you, CSI.

The flesh on Marc's neck is hard as stone. Feet are the same. Rigor mortis enters the body from head to toe. Leaves the same way, too. Say four to six hours dead? I never really bothered to check if the people I killed were rock hard or jellied.

Facial features twisted. He choked on his own blood. Slight bruising on his face. A punch? No, too small and slight. A slap? Considering it was a cyborg's hand delivering it, it got to hurt.

Blood-soaked pillowcase stuffed into his mouth. Post-mortem. Smart of the killer. No sense making a mess. But why?

Throat marked by series of small, dark bruises. Strangulation? No. It doesn't explain the internal bleeding.

I gently finger the back of Marc's neck. At least one spinal vertebra out of alignment. It's obvious how he died. Triela snapped his neck. His spinal cord got cut almost in half at the point of dislocation. Instantaneous death. Also caused internal bleeding. The placement of the bruises around his neck suggests she was throttling him while they were face-to-face.

But why did she take so long? For her fingers to inflict such bruising meant that she was throttling him for a prolonged amount of time– but not strong enough to immediately break his neck. Even accounting for cyborg's superior strength…

Did she hesitate? Don't tell me she **liked** this bastard? I stare at the once-handsome face. If so, what forced her to kill him in the end?

The rest of his body is unmarked. I fix a cold glare at his small, limp penis. You little fucker. You're supposed to think with the head on your shoulders, not the one hanging in between your legs.

Back to work. Correction on the rest of the body being unmarked. Wrists and right hand's pointer fingers are dark and swelled. Broken, probably, by a hard object. But what? Mystery piles upon discovery.

I sniff the rumpled bed sheets. My nose wrinkles at the familiar smell of sex. There would be both seminal and vaginal fluids aplenty here. Enough for DNA testing to get positive IDs. That and fingerprints…

Oh. Oh. Oi. You, Triela, are screwed. Big time. Your handler is going to kill you. I almost want to be there when your agency tries to bail your pretty ass out of this fine mess.

I stare at Marc's body again, then at the bed, and shake my head.

So young. So stupid. Now one of you is dead and the other is going to get thrown into a nunnery or into the nearest river, depending on what your boss Jean thinks. I'm lucky I work the other side of the street. Jean strikes me as the sort who'd have you killed for the good of the service, even if you were on the same team.

One last thing to do.

**  
**_"Hello, Carabinieri HQ here."_

"Ma'am? My name is Sheo Darren. I would like to report a murder…"

**  
**Sheo Darren is now a haunted, hunted man whose face is now known to the cops for the simple reason that he had a chat with them over a dead body.

The cops ask me questions. My identity? "My name is Sheo Darren. I'm a Filipino novelist visiting Italy for my book…" My relationship to Marc? "I don't know him personally..." My purpose in following him to the hotel? "I'd rather not have a patron of my restaurant get thrown into jail. It's bad for business…"

Christ. What am I doing? I'm blowing a perfectly good cover for a stranger who couldn't keep his dick in his pants when his life depended on it. I've gotten the bad end of a deal here. And I didn't even want to get involved in the first place. I'm not getting paid for this shit. Hell, I'm on fucking vacation!

"You might be called on to be a witness at court," a cop gravely tells me.

Fuck.

I can't go to court. Mister Silver will go crazy if I do that. He trusts me a lot, but not to the point of stupidity. Soon as I become an unnecessary complication, he'll have me killed. (I've been in Amalgam long enough to learn that when someone senior wants you dead, it's inevitable.) He'll have Elena and Giuseppe killed as well because he can't trust them after what I did. He might even go after Ami and Canon for the mere reason that they were my friends. And then there are Auntie Carla and Uncle Francisco and Hobbes and Marc's drinking buddies to worry about, too.

God, why is it that the people I care for always get dragged into my shit? I'd rather kill myself before they get harmed because of me. Especially Giuseppe and Elena. I can't face Jess after failing her. I won't stand adding two more innocent faces to my nightmares.

Kaede, why didn't you kill me when you had the chance? Sure, I spared you twice, you did the same once, and maybe the shit I said about me wanting to live did get through to your hard, horned head. But aren't you supposed to be psychotic or hateful or something? Or is this your revenge? A painful life instead of a quick death. Christ, Sanada would be laughing his ass at me forever if he ever hears of this. Corbin, too.

Enough, Rolito. Take this like a man. You call yourself a swordsman. Prove it. Defend the right– even if you are outside it.

**  
**I plead anonymity. Said I wanted to avoid the press. "My mom wanted me to be a journalist," I explained, using my favorite joke, "But journalists always get killed. So, please, guys…"

The cops laugh. They let me go after they get my testimonial. "We'll see you again soon," one says.

"Sure," I said.

Not if I can help it, though.

**  
**Sorry, Marc. This is all I can do for you. Not without getting killed myself.

Yeah. I know. You didn't deserve to die. None of us do. We all want to live.

Even if it means someone else has to die.

**  
_To Be Continued/Tsuzuku/Itutuloy_**


	4. Death X Life

_Sorry, Marc. This is all I can do for you. Not without getting myself killed._

**  
**Going back to Rolito's is a no-no right now. I can't face Marc's buddies. Not yet, not now.

Not ever?

Instead I pick the fifth coffee shop I randomly come across. (UCC. Thank God for some small favors.) A cup of one of their stronger alcohol-coffee blends soon finds its way into my hands and then my gut and from there my bloodstream. Amply fortified, I mentally reconstructed the scene from the beginning.

Marc seduced Triela. He brought her to Rolito's Pasta for a date last night. There he got her drunk. He then brought her to the motel and had his way with her. The next morning, when Triela woke up, she was horrified or pissed. She killed Marc. Left in a hurry.

Simple. **Too** simple. Occam's Razor is a nice tool, but I'm partial to the Holmesian principle. Eliminate all the discrepancies, and what you have left, however improbable, is the truth.

I'm missing something. Something important. Something I've overlooked.

The gun. Triela had to have a gun on her. She was drunk as Bacchus (what a metaphor!), so Marc probably undressed her. He couldn't have missed the gun or mistaken it for something else.

Shouldn't that have warned him? It probably did. Not every thirteen-year-old girl in Italy carries a gun on her person.

But he badly wanted to fuck her. So, he did.

At this point I began swearing to myself in all the languages I know.

**  
Gunslinger Girl**

**Crossover**

**  
**Inspired by The Oddity's fan fiction "Showdown" and Colonel Marksman/G.D. Wallez's fan fiction "Innocence". Happens at around the same time.

Not linked to my usual GSG fanon.

**  
Death/Life**

**  
**So who woke up first? Marc? But he's back there, dead, on the bed. (Damn rhyme)

So Triela wakes up first. She discovers she had been raped– or does it count as rape if you don't resist? What did my good ole Theology teacher say on the matter? Ah, fuck it. I got a D in his course, anyway.

Anyway, she wakes up, finds her maidenhood defiled (Damn it, Rolito! Get serious!) and turns her anger on Marc. She tortures him and then kills him.

No. Drop the torture. Triela is smart and well-trained. Angry or not, as soon as she realizes the mess she's in, she knows she has to get out ASAP.

Drop the killing, too. She's an assassin, but not a cold-blooded murderer. She wouldn't have killed Marc while he was asleep. She would have just left. So Marc awoke at some point shortly after she did.

Even so, he was a civilian and unarmed. She wouldn't kill him. Slap or punch him for taking advantage of her, sure. His cheek was bruised. Yeah, she slapped him, all right. But she wouldn't kill him. Not the guy she agreed to date, the guy she liked. So he did something to provoke her.

The gun. Her gun. Marc found it on her.

Of course! The gun told him she was dangerous, so he turned it on her. Maybe Marc isn't as stupid as I made him out to be. But he wasn't smart enough, either.

Triela somehow turned the tables on him. Marc had a crushed finger and broken wrists. He was holding the gun when Triela disarmed him. There was probably a struggle, which explains the extensive bruising on Marc's hand.

There were signs of struggling on Marc's body. No spent casings –though Triela might have picked them up– and no holes in the floor or walls or bed. A gunshot would have been heard despite the cheap soundproofing. Hell, the nice soundproofing in my expensive apartment didn't keep out the gunshots in the room overhead. (Crazy cyborgs.) Plus the smell. It's the hardest thing to mask the smell of cordite.

No. There wasn't any shooting. The gun wasn't needed. Not by a cyborg.

Triela disarmed Marc, grabbed him by the throat, choked him, and then snapped his neck.

Why didn't she kill him outright? Why bother choking him? She had more than enough strength and the right kind of training. It doesn't take much to break a person's neck. You just had to know where to grip.

So she was panicking. A trained killer losing her cool? Possible. I do it most of the time, and I'm pretty hard myself. And, mechanical body or not, she was still a thirteen-year-old girl. She **liked** this bastard despite his **raping** her, despite his pointing a gun at her.

Did she cry? Just what did she see in Marc? He was a player. He knew how to bend women to his whims. Triela learned it too late for her virginity, but not too late to wreak some bloody justice. Yet she still ended up in bed with him before that Bad Ending.

He'd been playing her for a while, then. Maybe a week. Time enough to get to know her. To insinuate himself in her heart. To make her believe he loved her.

How can people do that? Deceive others into becoming their playthings? I can understand deception as a standard defensive tactic. I mislead everyone as best as I can to protect myself and the people I care for. I do this knowing that lying always risks the chance of discovery later. And the first thing the truth does to you once it comes out is bite you in the ass. And the bigger the lie, the harder the truth bites. That's why I never lie unless it's necessary. Certainly not for a quick sexual fling.

Marc, Marc, why couldn't you have just proclaimed undying love to her instead of pointing her gun at her face? Then you could have had at least one more round of fun instead of being dead and then dragging **me** into this shit.

Cool off, Rolito. You're getting too cynical.

Why should I? I spent years building up myself as Sheo Darren. It was wonderful having an identity that didn't require you to watch your back or cut someone's throat in the middle of the night. I had everything I could want: peace, money, friends, surrogate parents, happiness and a future. And now they're gone thanks to some hormone-driven teen with a prick too big for his pants.

Putang-ina! PUTANG-INA!!!

Jessica, why do I bother with this madding crowd? Tell me, my sweetness. Kuya wishes to know.

But you wouldn't know. You were my angel from Heaven. You are innocent and unknowing of this.

And I lost you.

And now I'm losing even myself.

**  
**"Excuse me."

I look up. The speaker is a European guy who is taller and broader than I am. (Then again, almost everyone my age here is bigger than my 5'6, seventy-plus kilos.) His spoken English has a slight German accent that automatically reminds me of Schwarzenegger, despite the fact that this man doesn't sound like the Governator. Definitely it's different from Hobbes's cultured British English or my Filipino-American English. (Example: we Filipinos use the word "crispy"; the Americans use "crisp".)

"Mr. Sheo Darren?"

Uh, oh. How does he know my name?

"Yes…" I do not bother to hide my suspicion. What I do conceal is my body going into Battle Condition Yellow. This guy might need killing. "Why?"

"I'd like to ask you some questions regarding the murder at the hotel earlier."

Another cop. Great. First Vien, then the local Polizia, then Section Two and the Americans, and now a German. I must be a magnet for the troops in blue.

Wait a minute. He's in plainclothes. No partner. And I've already given my official statement. Suspicious…

"May I see an ID?" I ask.

He pulls his wallet out and flips it open. His badge says he's Interpol. But the ID kind of looks old…

**  
****Hartman, Victor**

**  
**Oh, shit.

**  
**_**To Be Continued…**_


	5. Victor X Hilshire

"May I see an ID?" I ask.

He pulls his wallet out and flips it open. His badge says he's Interpol. But the ID kind of looks old…

**  
****Hartman, Victor**

**  
**Oh, shit.

**Gunslinger Girl**

**Crossover**

**  
**

_Inspired by The Oddity's fan fiction "Showdown" and Colonel Marksman/G.D. Wallez's fan fiction "Innocence". Happens at around the same time._

_Not linked to my usual GSG fanon._

**  
Victor/Hilshire**

**  
**"Victor Hartman" eyes me as I study his ID. He's waiting for me to make a reaction. Any reaction. The one he's looking for to throw me into jail– or to put two in my chest and one in my head.

"Well," I drawl, "Everything seems to be in order, Officer. So, am I under arrest now?"

"No. I just want to ask you some things about the murder."

"I've already talked to the local cops. To have Interpol involved is rather irregular. Was Marc into drug trafficking or terrorism?"

"Need-to-know basis."

"Anyone can fake a badge and the attitude, Officer Hartman. I came from the Philippines. There, you can pick up shiny police badges and papers at the local bazaar–" the Tagalog word is _tiangge_ "–For five hundred pesos minimum. That's five euros at the current exchange rate. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I'm not acting. I'm really tired and frustrated and royally pissed off. I hope it gets into this guy's thick head that I want to be left alone to think of a plan to get out of this fucking mess I've jumped headfirst into.

"I understand," Hartman says. "Unfortunately, I can't give you any further proof of my identity."

"Is it because you **don't** have proof in the first place?" I tartly ask.

He looks a bit pissed by that. Good. Join the club.

"Would you like a drink?" I suggest.

"Is this a bribe?"

"More or less. I feel horrible. The entire murder has got me all worked up. Please let me indulge in some foolishness."

"All right. Coffee will do."

"Black?"

"Black is fine."

I order one for him and another shot of what I've been drinking. "Ask away," I mutter.

"I thought you didn't trust my credentials," Hartman noted.

"I don't. But it's not like anything will change whether I tell you or not. Marc will still be dead."

"We might be able to find his killer with what you tell me."

"I rather doubt that." Hartman gives me a long look. I smirk at him. "Oh, I'm not implying anything bad about your capabilities, Officer. But I come from the Philippines. There, it takes years to catch the perp, the trial that follows takes a decade at the least, and then the killer goes free at the fucking end of it because the prosecution and the victim's family got too tired to go on with the show."

"This isn't the Philippines."

"Ah, but it's human nature, too."

"And you're an expert on human nature?"

"I'm an avid student of life, to quote a friend of mine. Actually, it's not so much a human thing as it is a societal thing."

"What do you mean by that?" he asked.

"I mean that organized societies and cities change people. Humans were never criminally greedy in the first place. Our ancestors were too busy running down a dinosaur for dinner to worry about what the other guy in the cave across the brook had. But once people started settling down in one place and accumulated surplus resources, including and most especially **Time**, they became bored. And the bored mind is always the devil's playground."

"So civilization was a bad thing?"

"No, but it did open up new ideas for us. And some of those ideas were bad. Let me put it this way. Back then, if someone ate other people, it was because they were hungry and didn't have any other food around. Nowadays, if you think Mrs. Smith next door is a delicacy, you're a very disturbed individual. That or you star in your own movie trilogy, which the public sucks up to because it explores the darker side of human nature that everyone openly denies but secretly acknowledges and even lusts for.

"I'm not saying that civilization made mankind evil. But it did give us time to think things over. And some of the things we thought up aren't pleasant," I finished.

Wow. Rolito Miranda, historian, sociologist and psychoanalyst. Maybe there's hope for me yet outside The Business, Marc or otherwise.

Hartman frowns. "You don't put much trust in people, do you?" he accuses.

"Oh, I trust people enough. Or rather, I know enough of human nature to be able to more or less predict what a person will do. I believe in the fact that we humans are capable of great good. But I also acknowledge the other side of the coin: that we can do the most terrible things to one another and to themselves."

Yes. We do the most terrible things. A good man forced to flee his homeland because of wrongful accusations and blind hatred from the very best friend whom he trusted the most. A good son who went to see his long-absent parents, only to find that they have been murdered the night before, when he and his Sensei, who'd become his lover, were making love.

A daughter who stumbles upon the slaughter of her whole family, and found their killer waiting for her…

"_You… You killed my parents…"_

"_Yes. I did."_

"_Why? Why? Why?!?"_

"_You're too young to understand it yet. One day, when you're older, you will. But for now…"_

"_Are you going to kill me, too?_

Jessica…

"Are you all right, Mr. Darren?"

Hartman looks at me worriedly. Damn. I've been spacing out again.

"Yes. Yes. I'm fine." I smile. "Shall we attend to business?"

"If you're all right with it, Mr. Darren…"

"Oh, don't worry about me, Mr. Hartman. And call me Sheo."

"Okay. Sheo." He considered his question. "You were the first to discover the body?"

"Yes. I made sure not to touch it." I also ditched my surgeon gloves into the nearest canal before placing the call. Never place a call with gloves on. People will wonder why you didn't have fingerprints on the phone. That lesson I learned from a kiddy book. Encyclopedia Brown. The memory makes me feel young again. "I've watched enough police shows to know what to do."

"Wise. Your opinion of it?"

"I'm not an expert, but anyone can see that someone broke his neck."

"So who's the suspect?"

"Whoever it was who was sharing the bed with him, I'd guess."

"How did you guess there was someone else there?"

"Victor– may I call you that?" I ask out of politeness' sake.

"… Yes…"

"Okay. Victor, people don't just break their necks like that. I saw bruising around Marc's neck. I know enough medicine and saw enough murder mysteries to know what a forcibly broken neck is. Marc didn't twist his own neck while he was sleeping. Someone did it for him."

"The suspect?"

"My opinion?"

"Go ahead."

"Anyone. A guy, I'd guess. Normally, girls don't have enough strength…"

"Normally?"

"Have you ever heard of Amazons and Japanese pro wrestler women? There are women who are as strong as men. Maybe even stronger. I'd know; I've met enough of them in my time." Hell, near everyone who's kicked my butt has been a girl. Vien, Takane-sensei (oops; I meant Hibiki. Gomen gomen, Hibiki…), Masakari, Jess, Hari, Peppo, Yu Fang, Yu Lang, Canon, Elena... "Gender equality applies," I quip, "And besides, it's not exactly the hardest thing to break someone's neck."

"And on what expertise do you base that last opinion on? I mean the neck-breaking being easy?"

"Logical assumption taken off self-defense training lessons. A character in the Stephen King novel _The Green Mile_ states that a little girl could break a big dog's neck if she only knew where to grab. Expanding on that, my Sensei– my teacher in martial arts– taught me how to break a person's neck if necessary. It's surprisingly easy."

Contrary to what the movies all show, kiddies, you break a person's neck not by twisting sideways, but by shoving his head **backwards** and **upwards**. The human head-neck is built to turn left or right, an evolutionary development alongside forward binocular vision. You break a neck by twisting it another way than designed.

"So you admit **you** can kill people, Sheo." Almost an accusation, that; something I've heard from a lot of people, too, and one I've learned how to answer.

"We **all** can kill other people, Victor. I can. You can. A little girl jealous of all the attention her baby brother is getting can stifle him with a pillow. We all have that **potential** to be murderers, just as we are all potential saints. It depends on what we **choose** to do– or choose **not** to do."

Victor smiles wanly. "Had you ever taken up Logic courses in college?"

"Nah, the place I studied at didn't have them. The closest we had was Philosophy. I did take up Theology, but only as a side course."

"And your main course?"

"Creative Writing. My Mom would tell you I'm a journalist. That's why I know she doesn't love me. Journalists get shot."

"Oh, yes, they do." We toast on that one. "Then assuming the killer is male–" Victor begins.

"Never assume," I scold. "Assuming gets you killed."

"Literally?"

"Figuratively, too."

"Good point. So do you have any solid guesses on who killed Marc?"

"By way of just being there at the scene of the crime? The girl he slept with. What was her name? Triela, I think."

The resulting look on Victor's face is so priceless that I'm tempted to take a picture using my cell phone's digital camera.

"Is there something wrong, Victor?"

"Ah… no… nothing…"

"Do you think she's the killer? This Triela?"

"We have no such evidence otherwise." He pauses. "How do you know her name?"

"Marc's drinking buddies and Hobbes told me."

"Hobbes?"

"Head waiter at Rolito's Pasta." The curious Victor raises a stolid eyebrow. I grin. "It was called that before I ever came across it. You can go ask the owners," I suggest.

"Maybe I will."

Oops. I think I was too smart for my own good. If Victor goes to Rolito's and asks Mark's friends, and they tell him that I told him I knew Triela's guardian, and he suspects…

Fuck that. If Section Two ever comes for Aunt Carla and Uncle Franco, I'll Lambda Driver their asses back to the Stone Age, secrecy be damned. I've lost enough loved ones. Everyone else can go to Hell.

"What exactly did they tell you?" Victor asks.

Smart boy. Okay, time to watch what I'm saying. Give him just enough of the truth…

"That Marc had a hot date that night. I managed to get them to tell me the girl's name by scaring them into thinking I knew the guy who was responsible for her, and that he was a terrifying guy."

I successfully try not to smile at Victor's sudden scowl. Have you ever thought to look in a mirror? No wonder your cyborg went off with the first cute boy she ran across…

"Why did you chase them?"

"Marc seduced Triela at a restaurant I theoretically own. Did I mention that I was an honorary owner? I didn't? Well, now you know. Anyway, it makes me responsible for him. It's bad for business if a regular customer rapes another customer."

"Rapes?"

"Classic rapist pattern. Boy takes girl out to expensive joint. Boy gets girl drunk. Boy takes girl to motel."

"And where were you during that time?"

"At my hotel room." I give the address of the hotel where the shoot-out above my head occurred. Hartman looks rather displeased. So the guy who roomed above me was a Section Two cyborg, then? "There was a shootout there, Officer. You might want to look it up as well."

"Did you report it?"

"No, I was too busy barricading the door. I didn't want to make the people upstairs think I was on to them. But other people reported it for me, so there."

"Why didn't you call the police yourself?"

"Victor, I was sitting right beneath the shooters. I could hear their gunfire. Maybe they could have heard me or my phone. I didn't want to risk getting shot."

"You've been shot before?"

"I've seen the news and some corpses. It doesn't look to be too enjoyable."

"You did the right thing."

"Thanks. I try my damnedest."

I pay for our drinks. Hartman offers his hand. I take it. His eyebrows rise. "You've got calluses on your palms," he observes.

"Classes in Japanese swordsmanship. Kendo and iaido. Also arnis. It keeps me in shape."

"Ah. Well, goodbye, Sheo."

Bye, Hilshire.


	6. Life Goes On X The End

Marc's buddies are still heartily enjoying my generosity. I break the bad news to them and Hobbes. It effectively puts a damper to their drinking spree.

"He was such a good lad," Hobbes whispered.

I rather doubt that. But dead people do not need sarcasm. I keep my peace.

"If the cops approach you," I detail, "Tell them everything you know. Do not hide anything."

They all quietly agree.

"Mr. Darren?" one of the kids asks me.

"Yes?"

"You said you knew Triela? And Hilshire?"

"Yes."

"You'll do something about them, right?"

They all look to me as if I'm the right hand of Justice.

"Yes. I will."

But I'm only human.

**  
Gunslinger Girl**

**Crossover**

**  
**Inspired by The Oddity's fan fiction "Showdown" and Colonel Marksman/G.D. Wallez's fan fiction "Innocence". Happens at around the same time.

Not linked to my usual GSG fanon.

**  
Life Goes On/The End**

**  
**I drop by Auntie Carla and Uncle Francisco's homely apartment. They're delighted to see me again. Auntie looks much better now. She happily serves me tea and biscuits.

"How is your novel coming along, Sheo dear?"

"I'm almost finished, Auntie."

I'm not lying to her. Cid: The Novel is pretty much done. As Sheo, I claimed to be an itinerant novelist. Surprisingly, I actually got down to writing the damn thing.

**  
**_Cid Osborn stared out the window of Calipse University High School Classroom 3-D, at the azure sky that stretched into forever. He sighed._

**  
**I might as well make money the legal way, too. I can't kill people or fight psycho psychic horned girls or train cyborgs or pilot giant robots until I'm a hundred and twenty. And Sheo Darren is a good name.

Until Marc fucked it up for me. Thanks a lot, buddy, for curtailing a good potential life.

I reluctantly tell Auntie and Uncle about the murder. Better to force the issue now. They take it pretty well. For a moment I had been afraid for Auntie Carla's weak body.

"The poor boy," she murmurs at last after a long silence of horror.

"I had prayed he wouldn't come to a bad end," Uncle Francisco allows.

Maybe he wouldn't if he didn't try to chase after every new skirt he ran across. O at least not piss off the ones who have guns in their skirts.

"Well, what's done is done," is what I say at last.

"Will you go to his funeral?" Auntie asks me.

"I would, but I can't. I have a very important person waiting for me to come back."

"Is it a girl?"

"Yes."

"That's good."

**  
**Just eleven years old and a cyborg, but yes, Elena is a girl.

"Sensei!" Her welcoming hug caves my ribs in. "Welcome back!"

"Oof! That hurts!" I complain good-naturedly.

"It's not my fault if you grew soft during your vacation," Elena scolds. "I can already feel fat on you."

"That means my vacation worked. So, have you been a good girl?"

"Yes!"

Ami Mizuno smiles at us. "Elena was very well-behaved."

"Miss Ami taught me how to patch up wounds!" Elena boasts.

"I'd like to meet the poor, brave soul who volunteered to be your guinea pig," I joke.

"That would be me." Giuseppe shimmers into view not five feet from me. "Welcome home, Sensei."

"Giuseppe! You young rascal!" I chuckle. "Didn't I tell you not to use the ECS when off duty?"

"Yes, Sensei. But since you always seemed partial to practical jokes–"

I hugged him. "Welcome home, my boy. We've missed you."

**  
**Giuseppe sports a nifty tan and proud eyes. A tour in Helmajistan as an AS pilot did him good.

"When did you come back?" I ask over drinks served by Ami. "I thought you would be away for much longer."

"Miss Memphis gave me a short break. I came back here to visit Elena. You were away."

"Not anymore. Enlighten me on the details of your tour."

Giuseppe trained in piloting the venerable Rk-64 Savage AS before switching to the 3rd generation Shadow. He inevitably got engaged in real combat and acquitted himself well. "Miss Memphis says she's willing to fight alongside me now," he finishes.

"That's high praise, coming from Canon," I tell him. "You ought to be proud. She's one of the best in the business."

"Better than you, Sensei?" Elena ribs me.

"Of course," I heartily admit, "Or at least in Arm Slaves. Otherwise, I wouldn't have sent Giuseppe to her."

We laugh.

"There's one more thing I want to talk to you about, Sensei," Giuseppe poses.

"Well, spill it, then."

He blushes. "Um… it's… man-to-man talk."

"Oh." I blink. "Oh. Okay. Maybe later."

Ami giggles. Elena frowns. "What was that all about?" my feisty younger ward demands.

"Man talk," I say with exaggerated seriousness.

Elena swats me. "You boys!"

**  
**After we're all comfy, I give them the condensation of my eventful vacation.

"That **is** bad news," Ami notes in the understated tone she uses when she's worried. "Mr. Silver will not like this."

"You said it," I agree. "Mr. Silver will skin me alive. Then he'll send me to his sister for further torture. But what really worries me is what he's going to do to Giuseppe and Elena."

That startles my wards. We haven't really tackled the possibility of Amalgam considering us dangerous. And they don't know about the powerful remote-detonated bombs in their bodies. The fail-safe I insisted upon Ami's mechanical body team. Otherwise, Amalgam would never have trusted us, thinking me another Gauron and my kids as copies of those psycho Chinese twins.

The trigger word is "Jessica Miranda". My darling sister, long dead, now the possible cause of death for two other children.

Forgive me, Giuseppe, Elena. For you to continue living means you have to be able to die. And forgive your Kuya, dearest Jessica, for taking your beautiful name in vain…

"What will we do?" Giuseppe asks after the long silence on all our parts.

"I'm going to tell Mr. Silver the truth," I said. "He's a very understanding man. I will explain everything. It's my fault."

"It's not!" Elena protests. I ruffle her hair to calm her down.

"It is, Elena-chan. I got myself into this mess. I dragged you all with me. It's up to me to fix things."

"We'll never turn against Amalgam, Sensei," Giuseppe declares, "If only to protect you from being blamed!"

I looked up to my brave student staring at me with such dedication and trust, and found myself severely wanting.

"We'll see what happens next," I murmur. "We'll see…"

**  
**"So, Giuseppe-kun," I ask after Elena has been tucked into bed and Ami gone back to her quarters, "What's this manly matter you want to discuss?"

He blushes. "Promise you won't laugh."

"Okay. I promise."

"Serious, Sensei?"

"Heart attack serious."

Giuseppe sighs. "Okay. Sensei… I've been having strange… dreams… about a girl…"

**  
**A minute later, I am laughing my head off.

Promises are made to be broken.

**  
**"You have an interesting way of spending a vacation, Rolito," Mr. Silver comments.

"Yes, sir." I bow my head slightly in sincere shame while remaining in parade dress stance. "My intense apologies, sir."

"Can the Italian police connect you with Amalgam?"

"I don't believe so, sir. I did not leave any clues that might have established a connection between my alias and Amalgam. They will wonder who Sheo Darren really is, but that is all."

"And Section Two?"

"Section Two might become suspicious since I mentioned to several key witnesses that I knew the cyborg involved. Also, I ended up talking to the handler."

"Oh?"

"Yes. However, I believe that I've sufficiently disarmed their suspicions with regards to my person." You ought to have been there, Leonard. You would have enjoyed how I ran circles around Hilshire. "I also believe that they will keep quiet since it is one of their cyborgs involved. They would not want to reveal their cyborgs' existence. I believe they would exert pressure on all parties involved to simply forget the matter."

"And if someone presses to know just what is going on?"

"Accidents happen, sir. Section Two will do our dirty work for us. We don't have to lift a finger."

"Will Sheo Darren appear at court if they ever call him?" Mr. Silver asks.

"If you would allow him, sir."

He looked me over with interest. "Explain."

"I owe a number of people a promise to make things easier on them," I elaborate. "I intend to keep that promise."

"It strikes me that they owe you far more," Mr. Silver notes. _Or that you owe me,_ he leaves unsaid.

"That is so, sir, but I am still obligated to them on a personal matter."

"And if I order you to cease communication with those people? Or even kill them?"

Don't hesitate now, Rolito.

I never planned to.

"I will fulfill your orders to the letter, sir," I firmly answer.

"And afterwards?"

"I will not move against you, sir, even if the organization orders me to do so."

"Because you are indebted to me?"

"Because I know you will win, sir."

He smiles faintly. "You flatter me, Rolito."

"If you believe so, sir."

"Humble and loyal as always." Mr. Silver gestures. "I see little harm in this adventure. You do not have to worry about it." His smile broadens somewhat. "You might be interested to know that no one else knows about your recent notoriety. It pleases me that one of my own men can cause such a ruckus without the rest of Amalgam knowing about it. And with that same man purportedly being on vacation, too."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"By the way, Rolito?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I am counting on you to deliver your promise to me when the time to face down the rest of Amalgam arrives."

"Yes, sir."

Me and Giuseppe and Elena and Ami and Canon are there, Leonard.

**  
**Sheo Darren will have to disappear for a while. Sorry, Auntie Carla, Uncle Francisco, Hobbes. I won't be seeing you for a very long time. Maybe never again.

But I **will** send you a copy of my novel. That, I can do.

**  
**And life goes on.

**  
**_**Finis/Katapusan/Owari**_


End file.
